


The Maiden Mirror

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Ghost Sex, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Late at Night, Loss of Virginity, Non-Graphic Smut, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Inexperience, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Whump, Spooky, Survivor Guilt, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: He finds it after the fire, after the funeral, while they’re rebuilding 221B Baker Street.The mirror is heavy. Oak. Vines and leaves curl around its border. A carving that might be a face gazes out between the branches, eyes dark and wide. Watching. The wood is polished and smooth, the glass speckled with age.In the aftermath of a tragedy Sherlock Holmes finds a mysterious object in his home and develops an odd new fascination...Ghost story, Victorian AU. Set post Abominable Bride and post His Final Vow. Enjoy!
Relationships: Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 25
Kudos: 108





	1. Obscura

_ Disclaimer:  _ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

**OBSCURA**

* * *

_ London,  _

_ 221B Baker Street,  _

_ 1897 _

He finds it after the fire, after the funeral, while they’re rebuilding 221B Baker Street. 

It’s nestled in amidst John and Mary’s belongings; he only discovers it because it’s sticking out of a box meant for their next of kin and he fears it will fall out. 

_ He can’t bear the thought of breaking something of John’s. _

The mirror is heavy. Oak. Vines and leaves curl around its border. A carving that might be a face gazes out between the branches, eyes dark and wide. Watching. The wood is polished and smooth, the glass speckled with age. 

_ It’s a miracle it isn’t cracked.  _

When he picks it up and holds it to the light, for a moment Sherlock could swear he sees a flash of gold within its depths… And then nothing. Just grey London skies and the remains of his flat. His life. He frowns, turning it this way and that. The thing feels lighter in his hands than it ought to, the wood warmer than it should be in the middle of a winter afternoon.

_ How peculiar,  _ he thinks.  __

Again, for a moment he thinks he sees a glint of gold in the mirror’s depths, but when he focuses his gaze, there’s nothing. 

“What have you got there?” 

The voice is Mycroft’s. Footsteps behind him and then his brother is at his side, peering at the looking glass. A frown puckers his face, his rather ostentatious new wedding band glinting in the light as he approaches. Sherlock is always rather surprised to see that ring, surprised too that his brother is so proud to wear it. It’s not the done thing, after all, for men of their class. 

_ Though love, he supposes, can make imbeciles of us all.  _

“I didn’t know you had this,” Mycroft is saying. He takes the mirror from Sherlock gingerly, examining it with a practiced eye. Sherlock wonders whether his brother can also feel the heat that seems to be coming off the thing but somehow he can’t bring himself to ask. 

He’s not sure why. 

“Did Mummy pawn this off on you?” Mycroft asks suddenly, to which Sherlock can merely shake his head. 

“If she did, she didn’t deign to inform me. I found it in a box of Watson’s things. Why?”

For a moment Mycroft doesn’t answer, his expression suspicious. His eyes flit from looking glass to his brother and back again. But- 

“It’s from Musgrave,” he says stiffly. He hands it rather suddenly back to Sherlock. Moves a step away. Again he touches the back of his wedding ring, stroking his thumb distractedly against the metal. 

_ It reminds Sherlock- unexpectedly- of a Catholic priest handling his rosary. _

“That’s one of the oldest objects we had,” he elaborates when he sees Sherlock’s expression. “Used to hang in the Blue Bedroom when I was a boy.” A try at a smile. It doesn’t quite work. “You remember the Blue Bedroom, the one everyone said was-” he grimaces- “ _ haunted _ .”

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” 

Sherlock has no memory of life in Musgrave, no memory of life before the last fire to turn his life to ashes.  _ He certainly doesn’t remember any flummery about a haunted room _ . No, the only thing he needs to know about Musgrave is that it became the final resting place of almost everyone he held dear in this world. 

“Then how did it get here, do you think?” he asks, irritated. “Or may we just diagnose Act of Mummy and have done with it?”

“Possibly.” 

It was a standard assumption amongst the brothers when something unexpected turned up. Given Mummy’s place at court- and the iron-clad confidence which accompanied it - she was always dropping things into the lives of her sons whether they were willing to take them or not. Still, even for Mummy this seemed heavy-handed. Callous. A mirror from their ancestral home might be the just sort of thing she’d think of, Sherlock muses sourl, to remind him of his station in life and his obligations- Especially now that Mycroft had gone and gotten himself hitched to the last beautiful object she had dropped into her sons’ lives, the formidable Anthea. 

And yet, Mummy knows how he feels about Musgrave. How he feels about what happened there. 

_ Well,  _ Sherlock sniffs,  _ if Mummy thinks she can be so heavy-handed then she can bugger off.  _

Perhaps wisely, however, he does not say that aloud. 

Rather, he redirects his attention towards his brother. “The question remains, though,” Mycroft is saying thoughtfully, “why didn’t Mummy present it to you directly?” Another grimace. “After all, I assume she meant it as something of a prompt, given its name-”

“Its name?” Sherlock’s lip curls sarcastically. “Does it have an address and a title too, perchance?”

Mycroft shoots him an arch look. “It’s called The Maiden Mirror,” he says haughtily. “Has been for as long as we’ve had it, not that you would ever bother to learn as much.” His own smile turns sharp. “And given that Mummy has chosen to gift it to  _ you _ , I assume she means it as a message…”

“A message?” Sherlock widens his eyes in mock innocence and Mycroft rolls his. “And what, pray tell, would that message be?”

“That you should get yourself a wife, little brother,” he says with asperity. “That’s what the Maiden Mirror is for. It’s presented to the lady of Musgrave on her entering the family, and giving up her, uhm-”

“Maidenhood?” Sherlock inquires sweetly. 

Mycroft narrows his eyes. He looks rather like he’d like to stick out his tongue. “Quite.” His cheeks have reddened slightly, but he’s pretending not to notice. Sherlock is only willing to allow this because his own have reddened slightly too.

“Traditionally,” Mycroft continues, “the new Lady Holmes gets ready for her wedding in the same room as this mirror, and traditionally she spends her first night as Lady of the manor under its watchful eye.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “It is supposed to act as, well,  _ witness _ …” 

“Poppycock,” Sherlock growls. 

He’s never heard such utter rot in his life. 

Now it’s Mycroft’s turn at mock innocence. 

“It’s tradition,” he says. “And tradition is what England is built on-”

“England is built on steel and gunpowder and the plundering of cities,” Sherlock snaps. Whatever his brother’s sympathies, he will leave him in no doubt of his.  _ He has seen too much in the last years-  _ **_has lost too many people_ ** _ in the last few years- to simply toe the Whitehall line.  _

As he always does when they broach politics, Mycroft adopts the patient, put-upon mien of a nanny with a particularly colicky baby and Sherlock adopts the intellectual hauteur which only a younger sibling has the elan to manage. 

Needless to say, both postures make them look idiotic. 

A beat, as both brothers allow the truth of this and decide not to fight. 

“Do you want it?” Sherlock asks then, because it seems like the best way to move things forward. “After all, you’re the married man now-”

“No.” 

Mycroft’s tone is surprisingly final. Again, he strokes his thumb along the gold of his wedding band. “Thea and I eloped,” he elaborates at Sherlock’s cocked eyebrow. “We’ve already had our wedding night, traditions be damned.” He swallows. “And I’d rather not have that thing near her...”

“Then what do you want me to do with it?” Sherlock asks in exasperation. 

To his surprise however, Mycroft is already casting about for his umbrella and great coat. 

“Hang it up,” he says, “that’s what it’s for. However it may have gotten mixed in with the Watsons’ possessions, it still belongs to you. I’ll be seeing Mummy at the Leonowens’ crush on Friday, I’ll ask her about it then.” 

Sherlock frowns, surprised at his brother’s offer to intercede with their mother but before he can say anything Mycroft is taking his leave of him. He moves quickly down the still-burnt remains of 221B’s steps, his thumb still stroking his wedding ring, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Again Sherlock thinks of a priest with his rosary. 

Again Sherlock ponders the heat of the mirror’s wood beneath his hands. 

_ It must be his imagination, he tells himself. _

Were he looking up he would see another flash of gold, there in the mirror’s depths but he finds he cannot bear to. 

In his mind he sees Sherrinford island, and Musgrave, and all they have cost him. 


	2. Arcana

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and in infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the gorgeous OhAIne, God help her, but all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

**ARCANA**

* * *

He hangs the mirror over the fireplace in his bedroom, the better to catch the light for his music stand. 

In fairness, it’s the only wall still standing which he’s certain will take its weight. 

That night he stands with his back to it, playing his violin until he can’t even make out the notes on the sheet music anymore, wrapped up in memories, wrapped up in loss... 

It’s the oddest thing but sometimes he swears he can hear an echo, another violin, there in the darkness of his room.

* * *

_ Later That Night  _

There is someone in the room with him. 

**_He is certain that there is someone in the room with him_ ** **.**

Sleeping, frowning, Sherlock turns in his sheets. 

Sleeping frowning, he kicks those sheets off. 

_ Air on his skin then, and it feels like someone is pulling his sleep shirt off. Linen scratches, pulls, and then he’s free.  _ **_Free._ ** _ Someone is touching him gently, stroking small, calloused fingers down the length of his nose, the slant of his cheekbones. He can feel warm breath against his skin. His throat. He feels something which he supposes must be kisses butterfly across his eyelids. His lips. His belly, his hips.  _

_ In his sleep, in the dark, he realises that he’s getting hard.  _

_ In his sleep, in the dark, he realises that he wants to.  _

_ It’s a strange sensation, pleasant and unexpected. While he has no patience for the clamourings of his cock when he’s awake, he finds himself bereft of reluctance, here in the dark.  _

_ “Sherlock,” he hears a woman’s voice whisper. “Sherlock, darling…” _

_ “God,” he hears his own voice say. “Sweet thing, little thing, please don’t stop…” _

_ Kisses pressed to his lips then. Openmouthed, sweet. He’s panting, heart hammering and yes, yes his cock is very hard now. He can feel it aching in time with the thudding of his heart. The bed dips as someone lies down beside him- As someone strokes their hands all over him. Small hands, sweet hands, the hands of a woman. Strong, sure, they arouse and tease. Scratch.  _ **_Soothe_ ** _.  _

_ It’s enough to drive a man mad.  _

_ She shifts and then suddenly there’s heat against his hips, his belly and legs. Though he has no experience of the sensation, he now knows that this woman has taken him within her. That she is, that she is… making love to him.  _ **_Christ._ ** _ She’s hot, wet- wonderful. Hands stroke, gentle and confident, across his chest. Down his belly and hips. They glide upwards, curl into his hair. Tangle.  _

_ She begins to slowly, teasingly ride him and it is bliss.  _

He feels himself smile, wants to open his eyes but he knows he can’t. 

Still, he doesn’t find it frightening, no. No. 

**_There’s nothing whatsoever frightening about this._ ** __

_ More kisses then, against his throat. His chest. A tongue licks his nipple, small teeth bite gently down. A hiss of pleasure- he thinks it’s his. He moves at it, kissing her back. Shifting them so that now he’s on top. Arms full and warming, cock buried within wet heat. His fingers catch in long, silky hair that smells of lemon and vanilla. Her legs wrap around him, they cradle him and draw him in. Push- press- they move together. He feels the bones of her skull in his hands, the heat of this living person. This lover. He wants… He wants something. Something.  _ **_Something_ ** _. Something he’s never let himself have before. Something he’s been missing…  _

_ “Just like that,” the woman’s voice whispers. “Oh God, oh, God, I love you…” _

_ “I love you too,” he hears his voice say and he knows it’s true.  _

Sweetness, then. Heat. 

He tells himself he’s dreaming as he comes. 

He tells himself he can have this pleasure because he is dreaming- But he knows that for a lie. 

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s come across his belly. 

White sheets, white spatter. The scent of vanilla and lemon still hangs in the air and there on his throat he sees a dark mark, as if someone has suckled and worried his skin.

_ It makes him feel somehow… branded. _

He shouldn’t like it but he does. 

Without his really knowing why, his mind is drawn back to Mycroft and his damn wedding ring… 

The dull grey light of London gleams in the Maiden Mirror as he tries to gather his thoughts and again, were he to look at it, he might catch that flash of gold. 


	3. Nocturne

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and in infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely OhAine but of course all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

**NOCTURNE**

* * *

Days pass, and the dreams keep coming. 

At night he lies abed and finds he dreams the same damn dreams. 

It’s always the same woman, of that he’s certain. He does not think he would be so affected were he imagining an army of doxies, given the sort of man he is. She knows his name but he does not know hers, and in the heat of the dreams he can never find it in himself to ask her. _It feels like he already knows, deep down, the word just dancing on the tip of his tongue._ Though he finds he cannot open his eyes when she visits, there is a soothing familiarity in her voice. Her touch and scent. He’s coming to know the taste of her, the feel of her. He’s coming to know what she likes him to do, how she wishes him to use his tongue and lips and mouth to bring her to bliss and oh but his bachelor existence hasn’t prepared him for wanting that. For liking that. 

_He finds he loves to make her scream for him, and screaming for her in turn._

In the aftermath of their lovemaking he always dreams that she lies beside him. That she kisses him tenderly. He can hear the smile in her voice when she murmurs his name drowsily and strokes his hair from his face. _She always tells him that she loves him when she does that._ He wonders, sometimes, when he’s awake and sitting in Baker Street, whether this is what John felt for Mary, why this drove his friend to do what he did for her. To sacrifice all he did for her. 

Sherrinford looms large in his memory and as always when he recalls his late best friends Sherlock frowns. Tries to turn his mind to something else. 

_He does not quite succeed, which irritates him immensely._

So he scolds himself for counting his prurient nocturnal imaginings in the same breath as he might count his best friend’s marriage. He reminds himself that John and Mary had sacrificed everything for one another at Sherrinford and there is something holy- incorruptible- about that. 

He should not sully their relationship by imagining himself capable of such passion, he tells himself sternly, ignoring the twist of hurt and helplessness within which that bald statement provokes. 

_He is cold, a thinking machine-_ **_He has no business fantasising that he deserves to be anything else._ **

And yet, though he knows it’s ridiculous, when he’s asleep and dreaming in the arms of his lover, he imagines that he does understand, at least a little, what drove John and Mary to go up against the infamous Eurus Holmes. For he is coming to look forward to the dreams, coming to look forward to the relief they give him. Though he has never seen his nightly visitor, though he knows that it’s all his imagination, nevertheless when they lie together he cannot pretend he doesn’t feel anything. He cannot pretend he doesn’t adore the things they do. No, he loves it, loves not only their lovemaking but her laughter, her gentleness and tenderness with him- 

He has never wanted gentleness from anyone and yet he finds himself craving a dream-creature for granting it to him. 

In his darker moments, he wonders to himself whether he’s going mad. 

After all, in the days after John and Mary’s deaths he had come as close as he thinks a sane man can come to losing his mind. It was only his brother’s care and the attentions of Lestrade and “Matthew,” Hooper which had kept him from harming himself. Which had kept him from losing himself. 

_And yet-_

Her kisses- the dream woman’s kisses- they’re lovely. Loving. 

He can’t bring himself to believe they’re dangerous, just as he can’t bring himself to stop craving them. 

But then, one night, he catches sight of what’s reflected in the Maiden Mirror and he is forced to allow that he might be very wrong about that.

* * *

  
The man in the mirror looks like him, and yet not like him. 

Hair curly and grown to a bohemian length, face unshaven and clothes unkempt, the man lounges about in the mirror wearing some sort of suit and a blue silk dressing gown. 

He appears to be ensconced in the parlour of another, rather messier 221B Baker Street, a violin resting at his feet. 

At this realisation, Sherlock steps closer to the mirror and peers in. 

It appears that this Other Him is utterly unaware he is being watched. 

_Good._

Sherlock finds the sight both fascinating and disconcerting. The man has the same face, the same hands. He even appears to own the same violin. His gestures are the same, his smile. His eyes. His voice sounds the same too, a low baritone, the sound of which jolts Sherlock halfway across his bedroom in shock before sending him skidding right back in fascination- 

He shouldn’t be able to hear things through a mirror, he tells himself. 

Either he is going mad or this mirror is some sort of new device which his mother wishes him to test out without doing him the courtesy of asking as much. 

_Neither_ , he knows, _is a pleasing thought._

He’s about to take the damn thing off the wall and examine its back when he hears another voice through the thing and at this he stops. Frowns. His heart starts thudding in his chest, pulse pounding. 

Almost like a well-trained hound, his cock starts to harden in his smalls. 

For it’s _her_ voice he hears, his dream woman’s voice. 

_He would know it anywhere._

As he peers into the looking-glass, he sees her enter his field of vision and the sight sets something sweet and lovely singing through his chest. 

_It feels like home._

For despite the fact that he has never seen her before, she seems utterly familiar to Sherlock. The lines of her face, the sweetness of her form, Sherlock would know her anywhere. She is pretty, petite. Long brown hair hangs down her back in a ponytail. She wears a man’s trousers and some sort of woollen jumper, the former so massive as to dwarf her body, the latter so tight as to seem obscene. 

Nothing about her could be obscene, however. 

_One could not look into those sweet brown eyes,_ Sherlock thinks, _and ever find anything amiss._

As Sherlock watches she pads across this other 221B to smile at the Other Him. The sight of it makes Sherlock squirm with jealousy, something he likes not at all. She presses a kiss to his counterpart’s forehead, then to his lips, and with a rakish laugh he hauls her into his lap and tickles her. Kisses her. They both laugh together. The Other Him wraps his arms around the Dream Woman and Sherlock closes his eyes. Has to look away. 

_This must be an hallucination,_ he tells himself. 

_There is no ordering of this universe in which any version of Sherlock Holmes could be as happy as_ **_that_ ** _._

When he opens his eyes the woman is frowning, though. Looking towards the mirror. She pulls herself from the Other Him’s embrace and moves towards the mirror, peering inside. 

Head cocked, eyes narrowed, she reaches out and brushes her fingertips across the mirror. 

Head cocked, eyes narrowed, Sherlock finds himself doing the same. 

For a split second their fingertips rest against one another, there on the glass, and though Sherlock knows that it’s impossible, he swears he feels warmth, swears he feels flesh against his hands- 

It hisses like an electric shock. 

_Suddenly he understands_ **_everything._ **

Heat wells within him, emotion too. It’s clean as water, thick as ink. It engulfs him, pulls him under, like the swell of a tide. The swell of a heartbeat. In his mind’s eye he sees the morgue in Saint Bartholemew’s, sees the lovely, fierce being who resides there. 

Sherlock takes in a harsh breath and then he’s falling, falling, falling… 

But even as he’s falling it seems he finally knows what he has to do.


	4. Ever After

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and in infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely OhAine but of course all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

**EVER AFTER**

* * *

**_London,_ **

**_221B Baker Street_ **

**_2019_ **

There’s something queer about that old mirror, Molly thinks. 

_Something really odd about it, though she can’t put her finger on exactly_ **_what_ **. 

Nevertheless she polishes it, makes sure to be careful of it when she dusts- It’s one of the only things Sherlock has left of his family home, she doesn’t want to damage it. 

_No matter how unsettling she finds it, she makes the effort for him._

But still… A couple of times, late at night, she’s sworn she could see something in it. Something which most definitely is not the room which it’s supposed to reflect. Something which looks almost like… Almost like a man. _He is never distinct enough to recognise_ , _no matter how closely she peers at him._ In the light of day she blames too little sleep and too many long shifts in the morgue but when she’s alone in Baker Street she finds herself unable to accept those excuses… 

Just as she thinks that, she feels Sherlock come up behind her. Feels him press his warm, solid body against her back and press a kiss behind her ear. 

“Hello darling,” he whispers. 

And he winds his arms around her waist, long fingers splaying against her belly. She sighs in pleasure. As if sensing her parents’ mood the baby within Molly kicks, just a little, and Sherlock nuzzles into her neck. 

“We can take it down,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss behind her ear. He gestures to the mirror. “I know you don’t like it, we can put it somewhere else.” 

And he kisses her softly, sweetly, a smile against her lips. 

“Could we?” Molly asks. Again she sighs in pleasure as he kisses her. “Would it bother you-?”

Sherlock pulls back. Tips her face up to his. “It’s just an antique, Molly,” he says softly. His eyes are very intent and very loving, on hers. “There’s lots of antiques in the family coffers, I assure you.” A mischievous laugh. “This can go back to Mummy, she’ll probably be delighted to have it.” 

Molly smiles in relief. 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she says. 

“You are most welcome, Mrs. Holmes,” he answers. 

And with an exaggerated pout he lets her go. Moves over to the mirror and lifts it up, taking it off the wall. As he does so something falls out, something which had been pressed into the mirror’s back. 

It’s an old, sepia-toned photograph. 

It shows two Victorian gentlemen, one tall and regal, the other slight and boyish with short, flyaway hair. 

They are both clearly wearing wedding rings. 

They hold hands though their gazes are directed outwards towards the camera. The tall man looks rather remarkably like Sherlock, while the shorter one looks like…

“That looks a lot like you,” Sherlock says, his tone surprised. 

“It does?” Molly asks but he nods. Smiles. He sits beside her and gestures to the men in the photograph, pulling her into his lap. Molly places it on the kitchen table, carefully smoothing it out. 

She could swear she feels it heat, underneath her fingertips. 

“That’s my namesake,” he says, tapping the man in the photograph who looks so like himself. “William Asquith Sherlock Holmes, the first Lord Underwood,” he says. A devilish smile. “He was also the first Holmes to be a detective, though not the last.” 

And he waggles his eyebrows devilishly at her. Molly grins. “No, not the last,” she allows. She taps the boyish-looking man. “But who’s that?”

“That,” Sherlock says, a gleam in his eye, “is his scandalous second room-mate, the great pathologist and scientific writer Matthew Hooper.” Smiling, he peers at the two men’s joined hands. He traces them thoughtfully with his thumb, something far away in his eyes. “Apparently William Holmes was what the Victorians like to refer to as a “dedicated bachelor,” he says. “Which is a euphemism for-”

“I know what it’s a euphemism for, Sherlock,” Molly says dryly. “Though, judging by that photograph they were well past the euphemism stage…”

“Indeed.” 

_For a moment they both stare at the picture, arrested by how obviously happy both men look._

“Do you want to keep it?” she asks eventually. “After all, he _is_ your ancestor, and your namesake.” 

Sherlock is thoughtful for a moment, staring at the photo. 

“Yes,” he says finally. “It seems the least I can do for these chaps, eh?” A small smile, a devilish light in his eyes. “I can’t wait to show John…”

And with that he’s up and pulling out his phone. Taking a photo and gleefully sending it to Watson. 

Molly watches him in his happiness, a small smile on her face. Her hand goes to her belly. 

Were she looking into the mirror she might have seen a sudden flash of gold. 


End file.
